


No Refund

by redux (sian22)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: HYDRA Husbands, Jack's motorcycle thing, M/M, abstinence makes...., body art, guess the pup can stay, its for his own good, maori!Jack, pup whining in the night, twink!Brock, unconventional pledge, uniformkink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-25 07:49:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6186499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/redux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the pup messes on the floor you get your rolled up newspaper and let him know what you think.  When the pup tugs at the leash you jerk him back and make him heel.  When the pup whines for company in the night, all soulful eyes and warm neediness, you….. ‘Fuck’ Jack thinks.   All this time and he still hasn't learned. how to behave</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainConfusedCody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainConfusedCody/gifts).



 “Jaaccckkk..pleaaasssse.”  

It’s the middle of a hot and sultry summer night.  The peepers are reaching a crescendo; the sheets are twisted into a sweaty ball and the fan is doing jackshit for the heat,  merely blows warm air around in lazy circles.

It’s stifling and fucking irritating _and_  the pup is whining once again.  

The Jack in question is, of course,  trying really hard not to react but the little fucker is arching his back, flaunting _everything_ that is big and hard and just smirking in that way.  _Did he have to be so fucking gorgeous?_   All lithe smooth muscle, deep dark eyes and cheekbones that do not quit.  Jack feels a rush of sudden heat wash over him that has nothing to do with paired nitrogen and oxygen and stifles a sudden groan. 

Grits his teeth and focuses once again. 

 _R Nine T.  Rebel.   Harley 800.    Yamaha GTS.   Motto Guzzi.  Triumph Bonneville.  Norton Commando._ …  Every damn bike he’s ever owned, and few he’s just lusted after. 

_Shit asshole.  Do not think of  lust._

“Jaaccckk.”  

_Bloody hell._

The pleading tone makes Brock’s voice ride high as a warm hand snakes across his hip.  It practically drips with need and for now it is more cajoling than anything: not frustration, not quite yet, but that too is coming based on the night before.   Jesus did the kid not learning _anything_?  Brock is not stupid, oh no, but he just has a teensy problem with executive function, with impulse control, and while he’s had the benefit of the backside of Jack’s hand, it also means sometimes he just won’t quit.   No matter the incentive.

Jack grabs the hand and shoves firmly and none too gently back.  _Get the message kid._

A rustle and then a heavy silence. 

It lasts all of half a minute before this time a whole friggin’ body wraps him round, leg thrown over, a chin on his neck and a hard hot brand in the middle of his back.  It feels like he’s being dressed in Brock.

 “Daddy is there something wrong?  Something I’m not doing right?”  

 _Daddy.._ fuck now the kid is not playing fair. The boner in his back wiggles enticingly and goddammit now he is getting hard; would _love_ to show Brock how wrong he was, grab him and just plough the message in.   They have never gone this long without and this is torture,  but… shit… just…. No.  

“No.”  Exasperated sigh. Maybe this time try a different tack.   “Go back to sleep kid.  I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”   He growls, scrunching his big frame closer to the bed’s right hand edge.  Any farther and he’d be on the floor.  (on second thought it’s an idea.  Mght be cooler on the tiles).

There is moment of humid quiet before he can _feel_ the pout behind his back, and the pause, and frown, as Brock stops and thinks it through. 

Then, he jumps.   A warm wet and, _christ_ , agile tongue is drifting across his ass.   _Oh fuck_.    He just can’t.  Not yet.    Too bad the pup hasn’t learned anything from the snapping jerk to his chain last night, should know better than to really piss him off.

“Fuck off and go to sleep.”  This is shouted, loud enough to make Brock start.  “Wank yourself if you are such a thirsty bitch…”

Jack breathes a sigh of relief (and a tiny twinge of guilt) as the hot hard body turns away.   The kid retreats to the left side of bed and he thinks he’s free, off the hook, but then the snivelling begins.  Oh god.  He can just picture the dark wet lashes, the red-rimmed eyes. 

Strength.   He is a warrior and he is strong.  Will not give in.  This is too important and no way he is going to spoil it for the kid.

All too soon the quiet crying stops and is replaced by another, more trying, sound: the moist flick of a hand being licked.  _Oh god the little randy fuck._   The faint tremor rippling through the mattress does not help his peace.  Nor does the panting breath, the rising note and sudden ragged gasp. 

Bloody, bloody hell.

_CB 750,  V Twin,  Electra Glide……_


	2. Ta Moko

The parlour he steps into looks nothing like the space where he’d had his first one done.  It’s not dark or carved, there are no paua shells winking through drifts of smoke.  It is a very long, long way from Te Hana.   The black leather couch for waiting appears to be distressed from use, the walls are covered in scraps and etchings of designs and a radio is blaring Sol3 Mio from the back.   

_I have chosen well_ , Jack thinks. It’s not a swish high end joint for the hipster crowd.  It’s spare, but real. A bone chisel hangs upon the wall.   The tan vinyl of working bed is clean, the floor is spotless, and the tools are squeaky clean.

The proprietor behind the till folds his paper and puts it down, nods silently as Jack dips his head below the hanging plants and shuffles in.  The older’s man’s thick dark hair is streaked with grey and pulled into a knot.  He has the moko, the traditional Māori tattoo, on cheeks and chin and jaw. 

“What can I do for you?” asks a voice soft and warmed by a familiar lilt.

“Kia ora.” he replies.    As the rheumy dark brown eyes widen in surprise Jack holds back a quiet chuckle.  He is big, six and half feet of solid, heavy muscle, but you do have to look hard to see his mother’s people in his face.    

“I wish to expand my _Tā moko_.” he explains and now the man is grinning, teeth glinting white against the dark whorls of black.     Jack is clearly not some Pākehā who wants to take on something he does not own.  He understands the significance of the rite.    

The man rises and an ink-stained hand (for he is the artist too) gestures for him to follow.    They walk to the center of the little shop and Jack lowers himself to the battered couch.  Tea is first, then idle chat about the weather and the ‘Skins, then not so idle chat about his mother’s tribe, her iwi, and William, the proprietor’s, family back at home.

After two cups of a thick and swampy brew it is time to get down to business.

 “You have kept pure…?” 

The expected question comes after he has risen and begun to shed his shirt, to show the starting canvas.   By tradition the recipient refrains from sex for two days either side the rite. 

_Two days_ _that feel like ten_ , he thinks, nodding curtly, and his thoughts must show on his face for the faintest of smirks twitches at William’s lips.  

_Wimp_. 

Jack tosses his shirt across the still-warm seat and turns to bring his left side into the brighter light.    The older man casts an apprising eye over the design and hums low, running curious fingers across the grey-black lines.    It is not a sexual touch, merely the desire of a fellow devotee to show respect for the artist and the art.   Whorls of diamonds and bars and curving fern run up his left bicep and across his shoulder, fan out to fill every bulge and dip of his pectoral.  Engulf his nipple in a band of black.  It is intricate and bold, a dizzying riot of detail and very, very beautiful.  But more: a statement of belonging and affirmation.  Just like the second, the more important, patch that runs across his lower back.

“Uhi..” 

The word is said with a breathless tone of reverence.  Gnarled fingers run along lines that ride as ridges above the swell of his buttocks.  This part of his Tā moko was done the old way.   Literally carved into the skin, not inked.   Fuck he’d had gunshots that hurt less.  He has suffered for it, shown his resilience, and Jack was just thankful that so far nothing in his chancy job had marred the precious work.

 “I only do needles,’  William adds cautiously, ceasing his assessment and reaching for a paper and a pencil.     

“I understand.”  It matters not. There is none this side the ocean he would truly trust to have the skill and given where he wants it it might be hard to take.

“What will you have?”     

“Pikorua.” 

At Jack’s word William automatically brushes the hair back from his temple, gauging the amount of space in which to work.   He quickly shakes his head.  

“Tapu.”   

Jack has thought long on this.  By tradition it should be the uma, on his temple, proudly displaying his status for all to see.  The Pikorua is the symbol of loyalty, of friendship, of lasting faith: two ferns, growing together on the path of love and life.   But he simply cannot place it where it might blow his undercover work.  His moko reaches only to his elbow for that reason: nothing that will show outside his uniform.   It’s the same dilemma that he started with.  He can’t give Brock a poamu or anything to wear.  Neither of them wear rings or bracelets.  It’s just too damn dangerous now they are both in the same branch.  He saw a guy with a finger caught and ripped off once and that he will not risk.   

“Here.”  He splays his fingers across his hip.  The spot Brock loves to rest his hand on while he is going down on Jack.  The spot where the ridge of his 8 pack gives way softer skin, where the kid’s mouth lingers, hot and wet, on its way to engulf the yet still softer skin beside…..  

“Pardon?”  He clears his throat a little awkwardly.  William has asked something but he was, for a moment, miles away, mind lost in a tight, warm heat.   The flush on his face has nothing to do with the fact the man had already bent and turned up a small electric heater, considerate of his client’s comfort. 

The dark eyes are sparkling with mirth.   “What else?”  

What other design to wrap the fern is what William means. An _uma_ is two parts: the vow and the recipient.   This also he has thought a lot about.  Something that represents the pup, works for him. 

“Pataki,” he says, as the older man makes a few quick strikes of the pencil to the paper.   Dog skin cloak.  The play on words amuses him (the pup’s skin is soft and just faintly olive tan, not unlike the colour of the dingos that run free) but the design of hatched diamonds interlaced also signifies battle and courage, warriors and strength.   Which, when he’s done his training, Brock might yet be. 

_And easier to explain as representing Jack and Hydra_.  No need to tip the team right off.

A curtain is pulled across the back and he shucks his pants and jeans, lies down on the cool smooth surface of the bench.  The plaster above his head is also traced with elegant designs, just ones from a different century and worlds away from a land of young green mountains and steaming pools that reflect a different set of stars.

It is, he reflects, so not what his mother would have wished. 

Neither the gender nor the ceremony. 

_Ah but we cannot always have what we wish._ This is true.  Sometimes what we have must be enough.

He takes a breath and the ritual begins… 

…………

Lexicon:

Kia Ora:  everyday greeting… well met… 

Tā moko:  traditional Maori body carving or tattoo, used to display social status, tribe, accomplishments, home region. 

Pākehā:  A New Zealander of European descent.

Uhi:  Traditional bone (often Albatross) chisel used to carve a  Tā moko

Pikorua:  The double twisting fern symbolic of fidelity

Tapu:  Forbidden.  Root of the modern word Taboo

Pataki:  Dog skin cloak.  A traditional running band design of diamond heads interlaced, symbolizing a warrior’s skills, strength and courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to @howelleir for letting me borrow his headcanon that Jack, like Calvin Mulvey, is half Maori.


	3. Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> guess there's no returning a purchase to the pound once you've bought the collar and the dish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is unbeta'd to make it on time for Cody's big day.. please excuse the probable mistakes.

 

The waiting afterward. if anything, is more trying than the days before. 

Two days.  Two days is all Jack has to wait but they now feel like twenty instead of ten.  The first night (with the dull throb of the new work an unhelpful reminder below his boxer shorts), he lies almost still. Counts dust motes that drift through the shaft of moonlight spilling past the half-pulled curtain because he has run out of motorcycles and sheep do not work.  He’d spent far too many hours chasing them up the sheer hillsides of his uncle’s Te Amu ranch to get anything near relaxed at the thought.  

The pup for once has kept to himself-all tuckered out after a day of intensive training.  The new recruits had been treated to a little sparring with Captain Rogers and the kid had come home just bursting with excitement. ‘Cap this’ and ‘Cap that’ fell from his pouty lips practically every second sentence and Jack, amused because _he_ had actually worked with the guy,  hadn’t the heart to shush him up.  

_Goddamit but wasn’t he cute when he was wound up._

Brock now lies curled up on the far side of the bed, one hand beneath the pillow, dark hair still damp from a shower and a purple-yellow badge of honour across his cheek.   He looks, well, not quite vulnerable, but sure as hell adorable.  Fleshly clean and fuckable.  And doesn’t that thought just make Jack groan again.    He wants roll over and kiss that bruise, run his hands all over the tawny skin, spoon up behind and take him, slow and easy …. But no.  What he _really_ wants is to show the kid, to share the ritual and the words, but he has to wait.  There is no way he could resist Brock’s long agile tongue softly lapping at the tracery, swirling across the skin as he loves to do with the Ta Moko on his shoulder.  There is no way those gorgeous lips are going to stay put, not going to map out the new moko the moment that Brock sees what he has done. 

Impatient little pup.

Jack sighs, punches the pillow into shape, closes his eyes and tries to think of another when…  of his grandfather, his koroua, smiling, wrinkled skin about his eyes fanned black and tan and rippled like as seasnake’s belly. He hums liltingly …  _Patience, Manawanui, patience is virtue..  so Tangaroa, Lord of the sea, waits for his children to be returned to him with every drop of rain._

_\----------------------------------------_

The next day Brock tries another tack.  He seems to think if he just makes himself _more_ attractive Jack will break, will give in and give him what he wants.   Combine this with fact that the little show-off loves to be naked and the evening is just torture.  The kid prances round the house in his birthday suit, with a smirk here, an oh-so-accidental flick of hip there that sets his dick to swaying.  

When it isn’t bobbing against his belly.     _Christ._  

Yep, no need to strip the desperate, horny fucker down.  _Come and get me big boy._ Brock’s about as subtle as Rogers on a stakeout.

Jack’s knuckles on the tv remote are practically white. For a while he shifts uncomfortably, turns the volume up, but then Brock decides to lounge, and arch,  in front of the damn screen. In sheer maddened need he shuts off Anderson Cooper (guy’s an asshole anyway), stalks into the bedroom and slams the door. 

The kid does not take the hint. 

Brock decides to reacquaint Jack with the fact that he has an octopus for a boyfriend.  What seem like _way_ too many hands come sliding across the mattress in the dark. 

“Piss off...” 

His bark is just rough and loud enough to make the kid pause a moment but then the pouting and the whining starts.   Seriously, Jack’s had torture training that was easier to take than a frustrated, needy Brock. 

In the brief interval before the next onslaught Jack considers fetching a collar and chaining him to the far side of the bed. That would keep the pup’s paws to himself but unfortunately wouldn’t shut him up.  He is idly wondering where the duct tape is when a stubbly cheek brushes against his ear and quiet voice, drenched in breathy sympathy, pipes up.     

 “It’s ok Jack.  Happens everyone sometimes, not just to older guys.”    

“What?!!”  

The tearful  ‘sorry. sorry ..sorry.. sorry…sorry daddy’ turns out rather muffled through his hand.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Of course the apologies continue into the morning.  Breakfast is all laid out by time Jack drags himself, bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived (again) into the kitchen.  A plate of french toast and cup of coffee are presented with an uncertain, wary, hopefulness that make him feel like an utter heel.    

At his gruff and awkward thanks Brock just beams,  ‘Take your time, I have to go get ready.”

“Ready?   Oh shit..”  Jack had forgotten it was grad day.  The recruit class ahead of Brock’s were done and passing on.  Everyone was expected to show up decked out for the ceremony.  Hastily he shovels in his food, makes for the bedroom and pulls out the navy dress kit he hates.   It is sleek, a little too tight fitting for operations, the high collar is irritating, but the gun belt at least comfortable on his hip.  He is just polishing his dress boots when the pup appears. 

“Don’t you look nice.”  Brock is grinning, tracing the Shield insignia on his shoulder but this time Jack lets him play.  Damn but doesn’t the kid look good in his own candidate uniform: black tac pants, navy shirt, no insignia or gun in the holster, not yet.  Stupid excited about it too. 

They drive in, and Jack has only half a brain cell on the constant yapping.  He checks his watch.   8 am.  Sundown.  Sundown is when it ends.  Only ten hours more.

\----------------------------------------------

When they finally pull into the lane that night it takes everything in Jack not to pull Brock into the driver’s seat and fuck him til he howls.    _Breathe, toa, breathe.  Count to ten._ Not doing it here, not like this.  He has plans and will see them through. 

Dinner is not traditional, not a hangi, but he got kumara from his favourite grocer and the fish is pretty fresh.   The wine is one of the few whites that he likes: Cloudy Bay, not special for the eye-watering cost but a memory of a perfect day, azure sky and oysters smoked on a green sand beach.  (It is fitting but jeez it is ridiculous that it cost more than the pledge.)

They eat, the kid recounting every detail of the day, and Jack trying not to fidget.  The light of the low candles (citronella so they don’t count) spills across Brock’s cheekbones so beautifully he wants to run his thumbs along their edge, chasing the shadows with his touch.  _God, he can’t wait another minute…._

“Tired yet?”  His voice comes out far from nonchalant when they’ve moved on to dessert. 

The excited hopeful smile across the table is all the signal that he needs.  Brock squeals, surprised, as he is scoped up, cutlery and all. 

“Jacky put me down.”   

It’s a half-hearted protest, one sensibly ignored, as Jack sweeps them both into the bedroom and practically tosses the kid into the bed.  He straddles a laughing Brock,  running his hands up under the clinging shirt to sweep it off.   Brock wriggles, as eager to be unclothed as Jack is to have him free and soon he is lying there, flaunting his pretty, tawny self and Jack stands back, beginning to strip off his uniform.       

Oddly, for the first time ever, he feels a little nervous.

Jack had been sleeping with his boxers on as much to cover the healing skin as to hide the new design but now, seeing the big guy start to strip right down Brock is in no doubt.  The pup licks his lips, sits up and runs a hand over the Shield insignia on his left shoulder.  He traces it and the Moko underneath in slow circles as he starts to nibble on Jack’s ear.  “I love that shirt.  Why don’t you leave it on?”  he purrs.

“Another time….” 

Jack pulls back and slips a hand back over his own ass, slipping off his shorts to do the big reveal. 

The dark puppy eyes go wide. “A new tattoo?”  Excited fingers are running lightly over the entwined whorls of fern, raising goosebumps on Jack’s flesh. 

 “It’s not a tat you dick.  It’s part of my Ta Moko.” 

When the pink tongue flicks out he has to grab Brock’s hand.  This is serious.  There is something to be said before they are lost to the night and the pup for once, thank christ, maybe senses the seriousness of his mood.  Just sits quietly and stills, little shivers running across the gorgeous skin and the barest band of sable brown catching his own gaze.

“What does this one mean?”

Now that the moment’s come he finds his throat is closing up.  _Jack you woobie fuck._

He coughs and the words come out hoarse at first, but then gain speed and force as he traces the rings of the design. “Pakati is the band of warriors.  It’s a symbol of what we are.  The pikorua is for fidelity, for a bond with no beginning and no end.”  Jack stares intently into a pair of startled, shining eyes.  “I guess it means that you can stay.  I’m not getting rid of you now, no matter how much of a mess you make.” 

 **“** Oh Jack.” 

Brock launches himself into Jacks arms, flings both hands around his neck and practically devours every part of his face.  Leaves chocolate-scented smears and watery streaks in his wake.  

There are no three little words exchanged but then who needs said aloud what can be felt.    

Jack grabs Brock’s chin, plants a last hard and melting kiss on those too perfect lips and then (with a whispered word of thanks to Ranganui for his strength) prys Brock off. 

His growl rises strong and steady, like the tide pounding in his blood.

“Down and spread ‘em pup.”

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Howelleheir for letting me borrow his headcanon about Jack's heritage and huge thanks to Bekaylo for comments and critters


End file.
